


Sidestory #1

by aguantare



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-02
Updated: 2012-12-02
Packaged: 2017-11-20 02:34:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/580329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aguantare/pseuds/aguantare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It hits him, then, that they don’t know where Zayn is; if they did, they wouldn’t be here trying to kick it out of him. Parallels <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/572747/chapters/1029592">Chapter 3</a> of Waiting for the End.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sidestory #1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: don't know them, don't own them, don't sue me

Niall realizes he’s never been truly frightened, until he opens the front door and finds two State Security agents standing there. They aren’t overly menacing, at least in appearance, but he knows there’s no reason for them to be here that’s good, and he knows, by the bruises on Harry and Louis’ faces, what happened when State Security visited them.

“Can I help you?” he asks, far more calmly than he feels.

“Got a few questions for you,” the agent on the right says, “Mind if we come in?”

Niall wonders what would happen if he said no, but steps back to let them in all the same.

“So we’re wondering about that bandmate of yours,” the second agent says as they step into the foyer and close the door behind them. So people outside can’t see, Niall thinks, fighting down a rising wave of panic.

“Which one?” he asks. He hates that his voice comes out thin, almost reedy. He might be afraid, but they don’t need to fucking know that.

“The raghead,” the agent responds, and it’s a verbal sneer. Niall feels a flare of anger at that, cutting briefly through his fear.

“How should I know?” he asks, momentarily emboldened.

The kick flies in so fast, he doesn’t even see it, has absolutely no time to brace himself. He doubles over, clutching at the hot pain radiating out from where the toe of the agent’s boot caught him in the gut and fuck, he’s terrified of what’s going to happen next.

The next two kicks don’t actually sting that badly, but the third catches him just under the breastbone, forces the breath out of his lungs and it _hurts_. He rolls over, presses his forehead against the floor, trying to breathe, and the next kick crunches into his ribs. He hates the sound that escapes him then, a sort of sob, but he can’t _breathe_ and it’s like his whole body is on fire.

“Sure you don’t have anything you want to tell us?”

For one, terrible second, he thinks about it, thinks about giving in and telling them. He tries to inhale again, and it hurts, but not quite as bad as before, and just as quickly as the thought was there, it’s gone.

“Yep.”

A hand grabs him roughly by the upper arm, pulls him partway up. He gets a fleeting glimpse of the agent, lantern-jawed and sneering, and then he’s crying against the floor from a hard kick to the soft part of his abdomen, just below his stomach. It’s like a red hot ember being pressed against his insides. His vision is blurred, the floor just a brown mass in front of his eyes, but it hits him, then, that they don’t know where Zayn is; if they did, they wouldn’t be here trying to kick it out of him. That thought gives him something to hold on to, something to focus on besides the searing in his gut and just how afraid he really is.

“Answer’s still the same,” he grits out.

The agent crouches down next to his head, and Niall wonders if he’s going to kill him, shoot him right there in his own home.

“I think you’re lying,” the agent says, almost conversationally.

“I’m not,” Niall replies, although it comes out like a groan. He wants to glare up at the agent, but his stomach hurts too much. He closes his eyes and waits for it. Whatever “it” is.

A pause. Movement above him. Footsteps. The sound of a door opening, then closing.

Silence.

His phone rings while he’s still lying there, trying to decide if he should move, trying to decide if he can. He ignores it for the moment, forces himself to his feet, only to find that standing upright hurts too much. He hobbles, hunched over, to his bedroom, curls up on his bed, and then his phone rings again. The caller ID reads “Liam,” and he debates whether to answer or not, but figures the end result—an anxious, worried Liam—will be the same whether he answers now in the condition he is or doesn’t answer at all.

He hits the send key.

“Hi, Li.”

A pause.

“Are you okay?”

Niall wonders, sometimes, if having Zayn in hiding and State Security breathing down their necks has made Liam, if possible, even more attuned to the nuances and subtleties in all of their voices and expressions that belie when something’s wrong.

“Yeah.”

“What the hell, Niall.”

Niall sighs, winces a little because breathing deeply hurts, too.

“State Security just paid me a visit.”

“And?”

“And I’m fine, Li. Seriously.”

Liam huffs out a sharp breath on the other end of the line, and Niall can tell there’s so much more he wants to say, but can’t—or won’t—because they have no idea who else could be listening in.

“Alright,” he says eventually, “If you’re sure.”

“I am.”

“Okay.”

-

Niall supposes he shouldn’t be surprised that fifteen minutes later, he’s woken out of a light doze by the sound of his front door opening. Light footsteps in the hallway, and then Liam’s familiar, broad-shouldered frame fills the doorway. Niall hasn’t moved from where he curled up on top of the covers, and there’s a rustle of clothing, a quiet swish of air and Liam is crouching down in front of him.

“Niall,” he says, one hand on his upper arm. His eyes are searching Niall’s face for bruises, but there aren’t any. He frowns, momentarily uncertain. Then his gaze shifts to where Niall’s hand is pressed against his torso. Niall curls his fingers a little under the scrutiny.

“Bad?” Liam asks. Niall shakes his head, but it’s a weak response on his part and they both know it. Liam moves his hand down from Niall’s arm to his ribs, and—

“Ow.” It feels like a knife being jabbed into his side. Liam withdraws with a frown.

“I barely touched you,” he says.

“Yeah, well.” Niall doesn’t really know what else to say. Liam bites down hard on his lower lip and he just looks tired and worn-out and so much older than he actually is.

“I’ll be right back.” He disappears out of the room before Niall can have time to feel guilty, and Niall hears him rustling around in the kitchen, opening cabinets, opening the fridge. He comes back a couple minutes later with a bag of ice, a bottle of painkillers and a glass of water.

“Here,” he says, holding out the bottle of pills and the water. Niall tries to sit up, grunts a little when the movement sends pain spidering through his midsection. He ends up tossing the pills back while he’s still half-reclining, and he thinks to himself that before, Liam would give him grief for that, tell him he was going to choke or get water down his windpipe. Now though, Liam just watches him with a slight furrow in his brow.

“On your back,” he says next, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Niall obeys, tries to uncurl as best he can. Liam hands the ice over without saying anything else, watches Niall gingerly situate it on his stomach.

“What did they want?” he asks after a few moments. Niall raises an eyebrow at him. Liam lets out a sharp breath.

“Right. Stupid question.”

He looks away, out the window, and Niall knows he wants to ask.

“I didn’t,” he says, saving Liam the trouble, “I didn’t tell them.”

Liam sags a little, looks apologetic at the same time, but Niall doesn’t blame him. He’d want to know, too. The ice and painkillers are going to work now, numbing his torso up nicely, and he reaches over, pats the bedspread next to him.

“Want to stay for awhile?” he asks. Liam smiles a little. It’s tired, but it’s still a smile.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

He stays until morning, and neither of them really sleep, but somehow, Niall feels less afraid with Liam there.


End file.
